


Red, Black, and Color-Safe Bleach

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:35:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a Tumblr prompt:</p><p>Les Mis Modern!AU in which Enjolras and Grantaire do their laundry at the same place every week and Grantaire secretly admires Enjolras from the other side of the laundry mat without ever saying a word to him but sneaking secret glances at him when they’re waiting for their laundry to finish</p><p>note: i don't really like the direction this fic was taking (I feel like my understanding of the characters has developed in a way that isn't really compatible with the plot anymore) and it probably won't update but orphaning it seems kind of sad?  sorry, friends -- hopefully one chapter of Grantaire pining at the laundry will meet your needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red, Black, and Color-Safe Bleach

There is a certain breed of man that enters the laundromat in shame.    
  
He is disheveled; having worked his way down to the bottoms of his dresser drawers, he is wearing the pair of sweatpants he also once wore last week.  There is a faint stain on his left thigh from the morning’s Hot Pocket.  His threadbare t-shirt is emblazoned with the name of an ultimate frisbee team that no longer exists.  He is ungroomed aside from a halfhearted attempt to run fingers through a head of dark curls.  It’s been about a week since he last shaved and about as long since he was last sober.  His hangover headache is throbbing behind one temple and his eyes are still red around the rims.  He drags his laundry behind him in a Hefty bag that threatens to stretch and break at the middle.  

The laundromat is all fluorescent lights, linoleum floors, and machines, some glaringly silver and some bleach white.  Glassy eyes screw up for just a moment as he steps through the doors, blinking hard against the sheer harshness of the new environment.  The temple throbs harder.         

It’s that time of the night when the laundromat isn’t full but it’s not deserted.  There’s a small girl sitting in one of the chairs, swinging her legs, who glances indifferently in his direction when he enters.  The other figures are adults, sparsely populating the room, each preoccupied with their own machine.  He hoists the garbage bag into one of the carts and begins wheeling it down the line of machines the best he can.  It is a lopsided thing with one wheel that wobbles dangerously as he makes his way past the machine with the ‘out of order’ sign.     
  
Its neighbor is functional.  The young man in the sweatpants opens this one, then reaches to pull open the black bag at its mouth.  Inside, the clothing is unsorted and crumpled into balls; he seizes it in handfuls and adds it haphazardly to the washer.  His bottle of laundry detergent was thrown into the bag with little more care than the clothing, and he does not find where exactly it is buried until the machine is already half-full.  
  
He shoves his hands deep into pockets to hunt for the loose quarters that hide behind his cell phone, or the candy bar wrapper he forgot to throw out before, or else in the deep recesses of fabric where they are nearly lost.  He counts them in his mind as he catches them, considers their cool weight in his hand, then pushes them into the slot one by one.  Eight metal clinks, the click of the machine door locking, and, after a  
heartbeat, the audible rush of water.   
  
He turns, raises one hand to run it through his curls, and freezes.  

Because there, in the plastic chairs that are both unattractive and uncomfortable, is seated some kind of laundry god.  It is nearly unfathomable that he missed his perfection on his way to the washer.  In sunlight, he imagines that this man would be resonant and glowing, but even here under austere industrial lights, there is a kind of resonant beauty: back sloped forward, knees spread v-shaped with snug jeans clinging to the insides of thighs and neck elegantly curved to look at some book clutched in long-fingered hands.  A few wisping curls of golden hair dangle down by a slightly-furrowed brow.  

Weakly, he wets pink lips, exhales.  There is sudden pressure seated in his chest that does not fade as he makes his way over to the chairs.  He makes a calculated choice to sit precisely three seats away: close enough to watch, far enough away to maintain appropriate social boundaries with a stranger.  

If Laundry Apollo notices him, there is no indication.  

He pulls his phone from his pocket, unlocks it.  Waiting for him is a single text message from his roommate: _Grantaire can you get milk while you’re out?_  
  
His response has nothing to do with milk. _I’ve found my future husband_ _._  It is sent but he keeps his face aligned with his phone, only daring to move his eyes.  Another glance.  The book is heavy, hardback, with Post-it notes peeking forth from the edges of pages.  Its owner’s full lips are almost imperceptibly parted in studious focus.            

The vibration of his phone against a slightly sweaty palm snatches his gaze away.   _Did you find him in the dairy aisle?_  Another vibration.   _And does your intended have a name?_

The corner of Grantaire’s mouth twitches up. _Probably does.  Anyway, I’m pretty sure he’s some kind of laundromat supermodel.  you’re invited to our wedding._

The next response is prompt.   _Sounds reasonable and not at all delusional, R_

Fingers fly across the screen: _oh yeah, marius text you back?_

This goes unanswered and it does not take Grantaire long to realize that his teasing has crossed the line to spite.  He might have sent a more courteous follow-up message if it were not for the quiet closing of a book.  It catches his attention and he freezes, watching from the corner of his eye as the figure beside him unfolds upright.  He straightens out, but one corner of red flannel does not fall in line with his body, pushed up to reveal a back pocket and a flat ass from which Grantaire cannot quite look away.  

He observes this laundry Apollo as he moves away — rather, he largely observes one portion of his anatomy and makes a cursory attempt to at least look at the rest of the man.  His stride is self-assured, his body carried proudly upright, and Grantaire’s breath feels far too shallow in his lungs.  

It takes Apollo far too little time to fold his laundry into a mesh hamper, though he is unusually meticulous in so doing.  He is too soon gone, disappeared out the glass front door.  The crimson of his shirt is briefly visible before disappearing into the dark of the parking lot.

A vibration.  
  
 _just get milk, okay?  i look forward to your nuptials_

**Author's Note:**

> First AO3 fic, first Les Mis fic, so feedback would be great if it's possible? I know this isn't much so more is coming. Thank you for reading!


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